As soon as Georgette was well, Madame sent her away into the country.I was sorry; I loved the child, and her loss made me poorer thanbefore. But I must not complain. I lived in a house full of robustlife; I might have had companions, and I chose solitude. Each of theteachers in turn made me overtures of special intimacy; I tried themall. One I found to be an honest woman, but a narrow thinker, a coarsefeeler, and an egotist. The second was a Parisienne, externallyrefined--at heart, corrupt--without a creed, without a principle,without an affection: having penetrated the outward crust of decorumin this character, you found a slough beneath. She had a wonderfulpassion for presents; and, in this point, the third teacher--a personotherwise characterless and insignificant--closely resembled her. Thislast-named had also one other distinctive property--that of avarice.In her reigned the love of money for its own sake. The sight of apiece of gold would bring into her eyes a green glisten, singular towitness. She once, as a mark of high favour, took me up-stairs, and,opening a secret door, showed me a hoard--a mass of coarse, largecoin--about fifteen guineas, in five-franc pieces. She loved thishoard as a bird loves its eggs. These were her savings. She would comeand talk to me about them with an infatuated and persevering dotage,strange to behold in a person not yet twenty-five.

The Parisienne, on the other hand, was prodigal and profligate (indisposition, that is: as to action, I do not know). That latterquality showed its snake-head to me but once, peeping out verycautiously. A curious kind of reptile it seemed, judging from theglimpse I got; its novelty whetted my curiosity: if it would have comeout boldly, perhaps I might philosophically have stood my ground, andcoolly surveyed the long thing from forked tongue to scaly tail-tip;but it merely rustled in the leaves of a bad novel; and, onencountering a hasty and ill-advised demonstration of wrath, recoiledand vanished, hissing. She hated me from that day.

This Parisienne was always in debt; her salary being anticipated, notonly in dress, but in perfumes, cosmetics, confectionery, andcondiments. What a cold, callous epicure she was in all things! I seeher now. Thin in face and figure, sallow in complexion, regular infeatures, with perfect teeth, lips like a thread, a large, prominentchin, a well-opened, but frozen eye, of light at once craving andingrate. She mortally hated work, and loved what she called pleasure;being an insipid, heartless, brainless dissipation of time.

Madame Beck knew this woman's character perfectly well. She oncetalked to me about her, with an odd mixture of discrimination,indifference, and antipathy. I asked why she kept her in theestablishment. She answered plainly, "because it suited her interestto do so;" and pointed out a fact I had already noticed, namely, thatMademoiselle St. Pierre possessed, in an almost unique degree, thepower of keeping order amongst her undisciplined ranks of scholars. Acertain petrifying influence accompanied and surrounded her: withoutpassion, noise, or violence, she held them in check as a breezelessfrost-air might still a brawling stream. She was of little use as faras communication of knowledge went, but for strict surveillance andmaintenance of rules she was invaluable. "Je sais bien qu'elle n'a pasde principes, ni, peut-etre, de moeurs," admitted Madame frankly; butadded with philosophy, "son maintien en classe est toujours convenableet rempli meme d'une certaine dignite: c'est tout ce qu'il faut. Niles eleves ni les parents ne regardent plus loin; ni, par consequent,moi non plus."

* * * * *

A strange, frolicsome, noisy little world was this school: great painswere taken to hide chains with flowers: a subtle essence of Romanismpervaded every arrangement: large sensual indulgence (so to speak) waspermitted by way of counterpoise to jealous spiritual restraint. Eachmind was being reared in slavery; but, to prevent reflection fromdwelling on this fact, every pretext for physical recreation wasseized and made the most of. There, as elsewhere, the CHURCH strove tobring up her children robust in body, feeble in soul, fat, ruddy,hale, joyous, ignorant, unthinking, unquestioning. "Eat, drink, andlive!" she says. "Look after your bodies; leave your souls to me. Ihold their cure--guide their course: I guarantee their final fate." Abargain, in which every true Catholic deems himself a gainer. Luciferjust offers the same terms: "All this power will I give thee, and theglory of it; for that is delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will Igive it. If thou, therefore, wilt worship me, all shall be thine!"

About this time--in the ripest glow of summer--Madame Beck's housebecame as merry a place as a school could well be. All day long thebroad folding-doors and the two-leaved casements stood wide open:settled sunshine seemed naturalized in the atmosphere; clouds were faroff, sailing away beyond sea, resting, no doubt, round islands such asEngland--that dear land of mists--but withdrawn wholly from the driercontinent. We lived far more in the garden than under a roof: classeswere held, and meals partaken of, in the "grand berceau." Moreover,there was a note of holiday preparation, which almost turned freedominto licence. The autumnal long vacation was but two months distant;but before that, a great day--an important ceremony--none other thanthe fete of Madame--awaited celebration.

The conduct of this fete devolved chiefly on Mademoiselle St. Pierre:Madame herself being supposed to stand aloof, disinterestedlyunconscious of what might be going forward in her honour. Especially,she never knew, never in the least suspected, that a subscription wasannually levied on the whole school for the purchase of a handsomepresent. The polite tact of the reader will please to leave out of theaccount a brief, secret consultation on this point in Madame's ownchamber.

"What will you have this year?" was asked by her Parisian lieutenant.

"Oh, no matter! Let it alone. Let the poor children keep theirfrancs," And Madame looked benign and modest.

The St. Pierre would here protrude her chin; she knew Madame by heart;she always called her airs of "bonte"--"des grimaces." She never evenprofessed to respect them one instant.

"Vite!" she would say coldly. "Name the article. Shall it be jewelleryor porcelain, haberdashery or silver?"

And the result was a handsome case, containing 300 francs worth ofplate.

The programme of the fete-day's proceedings comprised: Presentation ofplate, collation in the garden, dramatic performance (with pupils andteachers for actors), a dance and supper. Very gorgeous seemed theeffect of the whole to me, as I well remember. Zelie St. Pierreunderstood these things and managed them ably.

The play was the main point; a month's previous drilling being thererequired. The choice, too, of the actors required knowledge and care;then came lessons in elocution, in attitude, and then the fatigue ofcountless rehearsals. For all this, as may well be supposed, St.Pierre did not suffice: other management, other accomplishments thanhers were requisite here. They were supplied in the person of amaster--M. Paul Emanuel, professor of literature. It was never mylot to be present at the histrionic lessons of M. Paul, but I oftensaw him as he crossed the _carre (a square hall between thedwelling-house and school-house). I heard him, too, in the warmevenings, lecturing with open doors, and his name, with anecdotes ofhim, resounded in ones ears from all sides. Especially our formeracquaintance, Miss Ginevra Fanshawe,--who had been selected to take aprominent part in the play--used, in bestowing upon me a large portionof her leisure, to lard her discourse with frequent allusions to hissayings and doings. She esteemed him hideously plain, and used toprofess herself frightened almost into hysterics at the sound of hisstep or voice. A dark little man he certainly was; pungent andaustere. Even to me he seemed a harsh apparition, with his close-shorn, black head, his broad, sallow brow, his thin cheek, his wideand quivering nostril, his thorough glance, and hurried bearing.Irritable he was; one heard that, as he apostrophized with vehemencethe awkward squad under his orders. Sometimes he would break out onthese raw amateur actresses with a passion of impatience at theirfalseness of conception, their coldness of emotion, their feeblenessof delivery. "Ecoutez!" he would cry; and then his voice rang throughthe premises like a trumpet; and when, mimicking it, came the smallpipe of a Ginevra, a Mathilde, or a Blanche, one understood why ahollow groan of scorn, or a fierce hiss of rage, rewarded the tameecho.

Vain resolve! And when he at last found it _was vain, hesuddenly broke the whole business down. Hitherto he had been teachingthem a grand tragedy; he tore the tragedy in morsels, and came nextday with a compact little comic trifle. To this they took more kindly;he presently knocked it all into their smooth round pates.

Mademoiselle St. Pierre always presided at M. Emanuel's lessons, and Iwas told that the polish of her manner, her seeming attention, hertact and grace, impressed that gentleman very favourably. She had,indeed, the art of pleasing, for a given time, whom she would; but thefeeling would not last: in an hour it was dried like dew, vanishedlike gossamer.

The day preceding Madame's fete was as much a holiday as the feteitself. It was devoted to clearing out, cleaning, arranging anddecorating the three schoolrooms. All within-doors was the gayestbustle; neither up-stairs nor down could a quiet, isolated person findrest for the sole of her foot; accordingly, for my part, I took refugein the garden. The whole day did I wander or sit there alone, findingwarmth in the sun, shelter among the trees, and a sort ofcompanionship in my own thoughts. I well remember that I exchanged buttwo sentences that day with any living being: not that I feltsolitary; I was glad to be quiet. For a looker-on, it sufficed to passthrough the rooms once or twice, observe what changes were beingwrought, how a green-room and a dressing-room were being contrived, alittle stage with scenery erected, how M. Paul Emanuel, in conjunctionwith Mademoiselle St. Pierre, was directing all, and how an eager bandof pupils, amongst them Ginevra Fanshawe, were working gaily under hiscontrol.

The great day arrived. The sun rose hot and unclouded, and hot andunclouded it burned on till evening. All the doors and all the windowswere set open, which gave a pleasant sense of summer freedom--andfreedom the most complete seemed indeed the order of the day. Teachersand pupils descended to breakfast in dressing-gowns and curl-papers:anticipating "avec delices" the toilette of the evening, they seemedto take a pleasure in indulging that forenoon in a luxury ofslovenliness; like aldermen fasting in preparation for a feast. Aboutnine o'clock A.M., an important functionary, the "coiffeur," arrived.Sacrilegious to state, he fixed his head-quarters in the oratory, andthere, in presence of _benitier_, candle, and crucifix, solemnisedthe mysteries of his art. Each girl was summoned in turn to passthrough his hands; emerging from them with head as smooth as ashell, intersected by faultless white lines, and wreathed about withGrecian plaits that shone as if lacquered. I took my turn with therest, and could hardly believe what the glass said when I applied toit for information afterwards; the lavished garlandry of woven brownhair amazed me--I feared it was not all my own, and it requiredseveral convincing pulls to give assurance to the contrary. I thenacknowledged in the coiffeur a first-rate artist--one who certainlymade the most of indifferent materials.

The oratory closed, the dormitory became the scene of ablutions,arrayings and bedizenings curiously elaborate. To me it was, and evermust be an enigma, how they contrived to spend so much time in doingso little. The operation seemed close, intricate, prolonged: theresult simple. A clear white muslin dress, a blue sash (the Virgin'scolours), a pair of white, or straw-colour kid gloves--such was thegala uniform, to the assumption whereof that houseful of teachers andpupils devoted three mortal hours. But though simple, it must beallowed the array was perfect--perfect in fashion, fit, and freshness;every head being also dressed with exquisite nicety, and a certaincompact taste--suiting the full, firm comeliness of Labassecouriencontours, though too stiff for any more flowing and flexible style ofbeauty--the general effect was, on the whole, commendable.

In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feelingmyself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage wasnot in me to put on a transparent white dress: something thin I mustwear--the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabricssufferance, so I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon acrape-like material of purple-gray--the colour, in short, of dun mist,lying on a moor in bloom. My _tailleuse had kindly made it aswell as she could: because, as she judiciously observed, it was "sitriste--si pen voyant," care in the fashion was the more imperative:it was well she took this view of the matter, for I, had no flower, nojewel to relieve it: and, what was more, I had no natural rose ofcomplexion.

We become oblivious of these deficiencies in the uniform routine ofdaily drudgery, but they _will force upon us their unwelcomeblank on those bright occasions when beauty should shine.

However, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and at ease; anadvantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant orstriking. Madame Beck, too, kept me in countenance; her dress wasalmost as quiet as mine, except that she wore a bracelet, and a largebrooch bright with gold and fine stones. We chanced to meet on thestairs, and she gave me a nod and smile of approbation. Not that shethought I was looking well--a point unlikely to engage her interest--but she considered me dressed "convenablement," "decemment," and laConvenance et la Decence were the two calm deities of Madame'sworship. She even paused, laid on my shoulder her gloved hand, holdingan embroidered and perfumed handkerchief, and confided to my ear asarcasm on the other teachers (whom she had just been complimenting totheir faces). "Nothing so absurd," she said, "as for des femmes mures'to dress themselves like girls of fifteen'--quant a la. St. Pierre,elle a l'air d'une vieille coquette qui fait l'ingenue."

Being dressed at least a couple of hours before anybody else, I felt apleasure in betaking myself--not to the garden, where servants werebusy propping up long tables, placing seats, and spreading cloths inreadiness for the collation but to the schoolrooms, now empty, quiet,cool, and clean; their walls fresh stained, their planked floors freshscoured and scarce dry; flowers fresh gathered adorning the recessesin pots, and draperies, fresh hung, beautifying the great windows.

Withdrawing to the first classe, a smaller and neater room than theothers, and taking from the glazed bookcase, of which I kept the key,a volume whose title promised some interest, I sat down to read. Theglass-door of this "classe," or schoolroom, opened into the largeberceau; acacia-boughs caressed its panes, as they stretched across tomeet a rose-bush blooming by the opposite lintel: in this rose-bushbees murmured busy and happy. I commenced reading. Just as the stillyhum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely calm of my retreat werebeginning to steal meaning from the page, vision from my eyes, and tolure me along the track of reverie, down into some deep dell ofdreamland--just then, the sharpest ring of the street-door bell towhich that much-tried instrument had ever thrilled, snatched me backto consciousness.

Now the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, orservants, or _coiffeurs_, or _tailleuses_, went and came ontheir several errands. Moreover, there was good reason to expect itwould ring all the afternoon, since about one hundred externes wereyet to arrive in carriages or fiacres: nor could it be expected torest during the evening, when parents and friends would gatherthronging to the play. Under these circumstances, a ring--even a sharpring--was a matter of course: yet this particular peal had an accentof its own, which chased my dream, and startled my book from my knee.

I was stooping to pick up this last, when--firm, fast, straight--righton through vestibule--along corridor, across carre, through firstdivision, second division, grand salle--strode a step, quick, regular,intent. The closed door of the first classe--my sanctuary--offered noobstacle; it burst open, and a paletot and a bonnet grec filled thevoid; also two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily divedinto me.

Then, with a certain stern politeness (I suppose he thought I had notcaught the drift of his previous uncivil mutterings), and in a jargonthe most execrable that ever was heard, "Meess----, play you must: Iam planted there."

"What can I do for you, M. Paul Emanuel?" I inquired: for M. PaulEmanuel it was, and in a state of no little excitement.

"Play you must. I will not have you shrink, or frown, or make theprude. I read your skull that night you came; I see your moyens: playyou can; play you must."

"But how, M. Paul? What do you mean?"

"There is no time to be lost," he went on, now speaking in French;"and let us thrust to the wall all reluctance, all excuses, allminauderies. You must take a part."

"In the vaudeville?"

"In the vaudeville. You have said it."

I gasped, horror-struck. _What did the little man mean?

"Listen!" he said. "The case shall be stated, and you shall thenanswer me Yes, or No; and according to your answer shall I ever afterestimate you."

The scarce-suppressed impetus of a most irritable nature glowed in hischeek, fed with sharp shafts his glances, a nature--the injudicious,the mawkish, the hesitating, the sullen, the affected, above all, theunyielding, might quickly render violent and implacable. Silence andattention was the best balm to apply: I listened.

"The whole matter is going to fail," he began. "Louise Vanderkelkovhas fallen ill--at least so her ridiculous mother asserts; for my part, Ifeel sure she might play if she would: it is only good-will that lacks.She was charged with a _role_, as you know, or do _not know--it isequal: without that _role the play is stopped. There are now but afew hours in which to learn it: not a girl in this school would hearreason, and accept the task. Forsooth, it is not an interesting, not anamiable, part; their vile _amour-propre_--that base quality of whichwomen have so much--would revolt from it. Englishwomen are eitherthe best or the worst of their sex. Dieu sait que je les deteste commela peste, ordinairement" (this between his recreant teeth). "I apply toan Englishwoman to rescue me. What is her answer--Yes, or No?"

A thousand objections rushed into my mind. The foreign language, thelimited time, the public display... Inclination recoiled, Abilityfaltered, Self-respect (that "vile quality") trembled. "Non, non,non!" said all these; but looking up at M. Paul, and seeing in hisvexed, fiery, and searching eye, a sort of appeal behind all itsmenace, my lips dropped the word "oui". For a moment his rigidcountenance relaxed with a quiver of content: quickly bent up again,however, he went on,--

"Vite a l'ouvrage! Here is the book; here is your _role_: read."And I read. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled andstamped. He gave me a lesson: I diligently imitated. It was adisagreeable part--a man's--an empty-headed fop's. One could put intoit neither heart nor soul: I hated it. The play--a mere trifle--ranchiefly on the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a faircoquette. One lover was called the "Ours," a good and gallant butunpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other was abutterfly, a talker, and a traitor: and I was to be the butterfly,talker, and traitor.

I did my best--which was bad, I know: it provoked M. Paul; he fumed.Putting both--hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than mybest; I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed tobe partially content. "Ca ira!" he cried; and as voices began soundingfrom the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, headded: "You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this. Come withme."

Without being allowed time or power to deliberate, I found myself inthe same breath convoyed along as in a species of whirlwind, up-stairs, up two pair of stairs, nay, actually up three (for this fierylittle man seemed as by instinct to know his way everywhere); to thesolitary and lofty attic was I borne, put in and locked in, the keybeing, in the door, and that key he took with him and vanished.

The attic was no pleasant place: I believe he did not know howunpleasant it was, or he never would have locked me in with so littleceremony. In this summer weather, it was hot as Africa; as in winter,it was always cold as Greenland. Boxes and lumber filled it; olddresses draped its unstained wall--cobwebs its unswept ceiling. Wellwas it known to be tenanted by rats, by black beetles, and bycockroaches--nay, rumour affirmed that the ghostly Nun of the gardenhad once been seen here. A partial darkness obscured one end, acrosswhich, as for deeper mystery, an old russet curtain was drawn, by wayof screen to a sombre band of winter cloaks, pendent each from itspin, like a malefactor from his gibbet. From amongst these cloaks, andbehind that curtain, the Nun was said to issue. I did not believethis, nor was I troubled by apprehension thereof; but I saw a verydark and large rat, with a long tail, come gliding out from thatsqualid alcove; and, moreover, my eye fell on many a black-beetle,dotting the floor. These objects discomposed me more, perhaps, than itwould be wise to say, as also did the dust, lumber, and stifling heatof the place. The last inconvenience would soon have becomeintolerable, had I not found means to open and prop up the skylight,thus admitting some freshness. Underneath this aperture I pushed alarge empty chest, and having mounted upon it a smaller box, and wipedfrom both the dust, I gathered my dress (my best, the reader mustremember, and therefore a legitimate object of care) fastidiouslyaround me, ascended this species of extempore throne, and beingseated, commenced the acquisition of my task; while I learned, notforgetting to keep a sharp look-out on the black-beetles andcockroaches, of which, more even, I believe, than of the rats, I satin mortal dread.

My impression at first was that I had undertaken what it really wasimpossible to perform, and I simply resolved to do my best and beresigned to fail. I soon found, however, that one part in so short apiece was not more than memory could master at a few hours' notice. Ilearned and learned on, first in a whisper, and then aloud. Perfectlysecure from human audience, I acted my part before the garret-vermin.Entering into its emptiness, frivolity, and falsehood, with a spiritinspired by scorn and impatience, I took my revenge on this "fat," bymaking him as fatuitous as I possibly could.

In this exercise the afternoon passed: day began to glide intoevening; and I, who had eaten nothing since breakfast, grewexcessively hungry. Now I thought of the collation, which doubtlessthey were just then devouring in the garden far below. (I had seen inthe vestibule a basketful of small _pates a la creme_, than whichnothing in the whole range of cookery seemed to me better). A_pate_, or a square of cake, it seemed to me would come very_apropos; and as my relish for those dainties increased, itbegan to appear somewhat hard that I should pass my holiday, fastingand in prison. Remote as was the attic from the street-door andvestibule, yet the ever-tinkling bell was faintly audible here; andalso the ceaseless roll of wheels, on the tormented pavement. I knewthat the house and garden were thronged, and that all was gay and gladbelow; here it began to grow dusk: the beetles were fading from mysight; I trembled lest they should steal on me a march, mount mythrone unseen, and, unsuspected, invade my skirts. Impatient andapprehensive, I recommenced the rehearsal of my part merely to killtime. Just as I was concluding, the long-delayed rattle of the key inthe lock came to my ear--no unwelcome sound. M. Paul (I could just seethrough the dusk that it _was M. Paul, for light enough stilllingered to show the velvet blackness of his close-shorn head, and thesallow ivory of his brow) looked in.

Again I went through the part, but not half so well as I had spoken italone.

"Enfin, elle sait," said he, half dissatisfied, "and one cannot befastidious or exacting under the circumstances." Then he added, "Youmay yet have twenty minutes for preparation: au revoir!" And he wasgoing.

"Monsieur," I called out, taking courage.

"Eh bien! Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"

"J'ai bien faim."

"Comment, vous avez faim! Et la collation?"

"I know nothing about it. I have not seen it, shut up here."

"Ah! C'est vrai," cried he.

In a moment my throne was abdicated, the attic evacuated; an inverserepetition of the impetus which had brought me up into the attic,instantly took me down--down--down to the very kitchen. I thought Ishould have gone to the cellar. The cook was imperatively ordered toproduce food, and I, as imperatively, was commanded to eat. To mygreat joy this food was limited to coffee and cake: I had feared wineand sweets, which I did not like. How he guessed that I should like a_petit pate a la creme I cannot tell; but he went out andprocured me one from some quarter. With considerable willingness I ateand drank, keeping the _petit pate till the last, as a _bonnebouche_. M. Paul superintended my repast, and almost forced upon memore than I could swallow.

"A la bonne heure," he cried, when I signified that I really couldtake no more, and, with uplifted hands, implored to be spared theadditional roll on which he had just spread butter. "You will set medown as a species of tyrant and Bluebeard, starving women in a garret;whereas, after all, I am no such thing. Now, Mademoiselle, do you feelcourage and strength to appear?"

I said, I thought I did; though, in truth, I was perfectly confused,and could hardly tell how I felt: but this little man was of the orderof beings who must not be opposed, unless you possessed an all-dominantforce sufficient to crush him at once.

"Come then," said he, offering his hand.

I gave him mine, and he set off with a rapid walk, which obliged me torun at his side in order to keep pace. In the carre he stopped amoment: it was lit with large lamps; the wide doors of the classeswere open, and so were the equally wide garden-doors; orange-trees intubs, and tall flowers in pots, ornamented these portals on each side;groups of ladies and gentlemen in evening-dress stood and walkedamongst the flowers. Within, the long vista of the school-roomspresented a thronging, undulating, murmuring, waving, streamingmultitude, all rose, and blue, and half translucent white. There werelustres burning overhead; far off there was a stage, a solemn greencurtain, a row of footlights.

"Nest-ce pas que c'est beau?" demanded my companion.

I should have said it was, but my heart got up into my throat. M. Pauldiscovered this, and gave me a side-scowl and a little shake for mypains.

"I will do my best, but I wish it was over," said I; then I asked:"Are we to walk through that crowd?"

"By no means: I manage matters better: we pass through the garden--here."

In an instant we were out of doors: the cool, calm night revived mesomewhat. It was moonless, but the reflex from the many glowingwindows lit the court brightly, and even the alleys--dimly. Heaven wascloudless, and grand with the quiver of its living fires. How soft arethe nights of the Continent! How bland, balmy, safe! No sea-fog; nochilling damp: mistless as noon, and fresh as morning.

Having crossed court and garden, we reached the glass door of thefirst classe. It stood open, like all other doors that night; wepassed, and then I was ushered into a small cabinet, dividing thefirst classe from the grand salle. This cabinet dazzled me, it was sofull of light: it deafened me, it was clamorous with voices: itstifled me, it was so hot, choking, thronged.

"De l'ordre! Du silence!" cried M. Paul. "Is this chaos?", hedemanded; and there was a hush. With a dozen words, and as manygestures, he turned out half the persons present, and obliged theremnant to fall into rank. Those left were all in costume: they werethe performers, and this was the green-room. M. Paul introduced me.All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expectedthe Englishwoman would play in a _vaudeville_. Ginevra Fanshawe,beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty,turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads. In the highest spirit,unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought ofshining off before hundreds--my entrance seemed to transfix her withamazement in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M.Paul held her and all the rest in check.

Having surveyed and criticized the whole troop, he turned to me.

"You, too, must be dressed for your part."

"Dressed--dressed like a man!" exclaimed Zelie St. Pierre, dartingforwards; adding with officiousness, "I will dress her myself."

To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I hadconsented to take a man's name and part; as to his dress--_haltela! No. I would keep my own dress, come what might. M. Paul mightstorm, might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voiceas resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady inutterance.

He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would hestood silent. But Zelie again interposed.

"She will make a capital _petit-maitre_. Here are the garments,all--all complete: somewhat too large, but--I will arrange all that.Come, chere amie--belle Anglaise!"

And she sneered, for I was not "belle." She seized my hand, she wasdrawing me away. M. Paul stood impassable--neutral.

"You must not resist," pursued St. Pierre--for resist I did. "You willspoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of thecompany, sacrifice everything to your _amour-propre_. This wouldbe too bad--monsieur will never permit this?"

She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave herone, and then he gave me one. "Stop!" he said slowly, arresting St.Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybodyawaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceivedthat, and took heart.

"You do not like these clothes?" he asked, pointing to the masculinevestments.

"I don't object to some of them, but I won't have them all."

"How must it be, then? How accept a man's part, and go on the stagedressed as a woman? This is an amateur affair, it is true--a_vaudeville de pensionnat; certain modifications I mightsanction, yet something you must have to announce you as of the noblersex."

"And I will, Monsieur; but it must be arranged in my own way: nobodymust meddle; the things must not be forced upon me. Just let me dressmyself."

Monsieur, without another word, took the costume from St. Pierre, gaveit to me, and permitted me to pass into the dressing-room. Once alone,I grew calm, and collectedly went to work. Retaining my woman's garbwithout the slightest retrenchment, I merely assumed, in addition, alittle vest, a collar, and cravat, and a paletot of small dimensions;the whole being the costume of a brother of one of the pupils. Havingloosened my hair out of its braids, made up the long back-hair close,and brushed the front hair to one side, I took my hat and gloves in myhand and came out. M. Paul was waiting, and so were the others. Helooked at me. "That may pass in a pensionnat," he pronounced. Thenadded, not unkindly, "Courage, mon ami! Un peu de sangfroid--un peud'aplomb, M. Lucien, et tout ira bien."

St. Pierre sneered again, in her cold snaky manner.

I was irritable, because excited, and I could not help turning uponher and saying, that if she were not a lady and I a gentleman, Ishould feel disposed to call her out.

"After the play, after the play," said M. Paul. "I will then divide mypair of pistols between you, and we will settle the dispute accordingto form: it will only be the old quarrel of France and England."

But now the moment approached for the performance to commence. M.Paul, setting us before him, harangued us briefly, like a generaladdressing soldiers about to charge. I don't know what he said, exceptthat he recommended each to penetrate herself with a sense of herpersonal insignificance. God knows I thought this advice superfluousfor some of us. A bell tinkled. I and two more were ushered on to thestage. The bell tinkled again. I had to speak the very first words.

"Do not look at the crowd, nor think of it," whispered M. Paul in myear. "Imagine yourself in the garret, acting to the rats."

He vanished. The curtain drew up--shrivelled to the ceiling: thebright lights, the long room, the gay throng, burst upon us. I thoughtof the black-beetles, the old boxes, the worm-eaten bureau. I said mysay badly; but I said it. That first speech was the difficulty; itrevealed to me this fact, that it was not the crowd I feared so muchas my own voice. Foreigners and strangers, the crowd were nothing tome. Nor did I think of them. When my tongue once got free, and myvoice took its true pitch, and found its natural tone, I thought ofnothing but the personage I represented--and of M. Paul, who waslistening, watching, prompting in the side-scenes.

By-and-by, feeling the right power come--the spring demanded gush andrise inwardly--I became sufficiently composed to notice my fellow-actors. Some of them played very well; especially Ginevra Fanshawe,who had to coquette between two suitors, and managed admirably: infact she was in her element. I observed that she once or twice threw acertain marked fondness and pointed partiality into her manner towardsme--the fop. With such emphasis and animation did she favour me, suchglances did she dart out into the listening and applauding crowd, thatto me--who knew her--it presently became evident she was acting_at some one; and I followed her eye, her smile, her gesture,and ere long discovered that she had at least singled out a handsomeand distinguished aim for her shafts; full in the path of thosearrows--taller than other spectators, and therefore more sure toreceive them--stood, in attitude quiet but intent, a well-known form--that of Dr. John.

The spectacle seemed somehow suggestive. There was language in Dr.John's look, though I cannot tell what he said; it animated me: I drewout of it a history; I put my idea into the part I per formed; I threwit into my wooing of Ginevra. In the "Ours," or sincere lover, I sawDr. John. Did I pity him, as erst? No, I hardened my heart, rivalledand out-rivalled him. I knew myself but a fop, but where _he wasoutcast _I could please. Now I know acted as if wishful andresolute to win and conquer. Ginevra seconded me; between us we half-changed the nature of the _role_, gilding it from top to toe.Between the acts M. Paul, told us he knew not what possessed us, andhalf expostulated. "C'est peut-etre plus beau que votre modele," saidhe, "mais ce n'est pas juste." I know not what possessed me either;but somehow, my longing was to eclipse the "Ours," _i.e._, Dr.John. Ginevra was tender; how could I be otherwise than chivalric?Retaining the letter, I recklessly altered the spirit of the_role_. Without heart, without interest, I could not play it atall. It must be played--in went the yearned-for seasoning--thusfavoured, I played it with relish.

What I felt that night, and what I did, I no more expected to feel anddo, than to be lifted in a trance to the seventh heaven. Cold,reluctant, apprehensive, I had accepted a part to please another: erelong, warming, becoming interested, taking courage, I acted to pleasemyself. Yet the next day, when I thought it over, I quite disapprovedof these amateur performances; and though glad that I had obliged M.Paul, and tried my own strength for once, I took a firm resolution,never to be drawn into a similar affair. A keen relish for dramaticexpression had revealed itself as part of my nature; to cherish andexercise this new-found faculty might gift me with a world of delight,but it would not do for a mere looker-on at life: the strength andlonging must be put by; and I put them by, and fastened them in withthe lock of a resolution which neither Time nor Temptation has sincepicked.

No sooner was the play over, and _well over, than the cholericand arbitrary M. Paul underwent a metamorphosis. His hour ofmanagerial responsibility past, he at once laid aside his magisterialausterity; in a moment he stood amongst us, vivacious, kind, andsocial, shook hands with us all round, thanked us separately, andannounced his determination that each of us should in turn be hispartner in the coming ball. On his claiming my promise, I told him Idid not dance. "For once I must," was the answer; and if I had notslipped aside and kept out of his way, he would have compelled me tothis second performance. But I had acted enough for one evening; itwas time I retired into myself and my ordinary life. My dun-coloureddress did well enough under a paletot on the stage, but would not suita waltz or a quadrille. Withdrawing to a quiet nook, whence unobservedI could observe--the ball, its splendours and its pleasures, passedbefore me as a spectacle.

Again Ginevra Fanshawe was the belle, the fairest and the gayestpresent; she was selected to open the ball: very lovely she looked,very gracefully she danced, very joyously she smiled. Such scenes wereher triumphs--she was the child of pleasure. Work or suffering foundher listless and dejected, powerless and repining; but gaiety expandedher butterfly's wings, lit up their gold-dust and bright spots, madeher flash like a gem, and flush like a flower. At all ordinary dietand plain beverage she would pout; but she fed on creams and ices likea humming-bird on honey-paste: sweet wine was her element, and sweetcake her daily bread. Ginevra lived her full life in a ball-room;elsewhere she drooped dispirited.

Think not, reader, that she thus bloomed and sparkled for the meresake of M. Paul, her partner, or that she lavished her best gracesthat night for the edification of her companions only, or for that ofthe parents and grand-parents, who filled the carre, and lined theball-room; under circumstances so insipid and limited, with motives sochilly and vapid, Ginevra would scarce have deigned to walk onequadrille, and weariness and fretfulness would have replaced animationand good-humour, but she knew of a leaven in the otherwise heavyfestal mass which lighted the whole; she tasted a condiment which gaveit zest; she perceived reasons justifying the display of her choicestattractions.

In the ball-room, indeed, not a single male spectator was to be seenwho was not married and a father--M. Paul excepted--that gentleman,too, being the sole creature of his sex permitted to lead out a pupilto the dance; and this exceptional part was allowed him, partly as amatter of old-established custom (for he was a kinsman of MadameBeck's, and high in her confidence), partly because he would alwayshave his own way and do as he pleased, and partly because--wilful,passionate, partial, as he might be--he was the soul of honour, andmight be trusted with a regiment of the fairest and purest; in perfectsecurity that under his leadership they would come to no harm. Many ofthe girls--it may be noted in parenthesis--were not pure-minded atall, very much otherwise; but they no more dare betray their naturalcoarseness in M. Paul's presence, than they dare tread purposely onhis corns, laugh in his face during a stormy apostrophe, or speakabove their breath while some crisis of irritability was covering hishuman visage with the mask of an intelligent tiger. M. Paul, then,might dance with whom he would--and woe be to the interference whichput him out of step.

Others there were admitted as spectators--with (seeming) reluctance,through prayers, by influence, under restriction, by special anddifficult exercise of Madame Beck's gracious good-nature, and whom sheall the evening--with her own personal surveillance--kept far aloof atthe remotest, drearest, coldest, darkest side of the carre--a small,forlorn band of "jeunes gens;" these being all of the best families,grown-up sons of mothers present, and whose sisters were pupils in theschool. That whole evening was Madame on duty beside these "jeunesgens"--attentive to them as a mother, but strict with them as adragon. There was a sort of cordon stretched before them, which theywearied her with prayers to be permitted to pass, and just to revivethemselves by one dance with that "belle blonde," or that "joliebrune," or "cette jeune fille magnifique aux cheveux noirs comme lejais."

Madame knew something of the world; Madame knew much of human nature.I don't think that another directress in Villette would have dared toadmit a "jeune homme" within her walls; but Madame knew that bygranting such admission, on an occasion like the present, a boldstroke might be struck, and a great point gained.

In the first place, the parents were made accomplices to the deed, forit was only through their mediation it was brought about. Secondly:the admission of these rattlesnakes, so fascinating and so dangerous,served to draw out Madame precisely in her strongest character--thatof a first-rate _surveillante_. Thirdly: their presence furnisheda most piquant ingredient to the entertainment: the pupils knew it,and saw it, and the view of such golden apples shining afar off,animated them with a spirit no other circumstance could have kindled.The children's pleasure spread to the parents; life and mirthcirculated quickly round the ball-room; the "jeunes gens" themselves,though restrained, were amused: for Madame never permitted them tofeel dull--and thus Madame Beck's fete annually ensured a successunknown to the fete of any other directress in the land.

I observed that Dr. John was at first permitted to walk at largethrough the classes: there was about him a manly, responsible look,that redeemed his youth, and half-expiated his beauty; but as soon asthe ball began, Madame ran up to him.

"Come, Wolf; come," said she, laughing: "you wear sheep's clothing,but you must quit the fold notwithstanding. Come; I have a finemenagerie of twenty here in the carre: let me place you amongst mycollection."

"But first suffer me to have one dance with one pupil of my choice."

"Have you the face to ask such a thing? It is madness: it is impiety.Sortez, sortez, au plus vite."

She drove him before her, and soon had him enclosed within the cordon.

Ginevra being, I suppose, tired with dancing, sought me out in myretreat. She threw herself on the bench beside me, and (ademonstration I could very well have dispensed with) cast her armsround my neck.

"Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite ofyou, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful; I feelit, I see it--for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room,where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now,and let us two stand before it?"

"I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of yourbent."

The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her armthrough mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistanceremonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feastand triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow--whether it waspossible it could feed to satiety--whether any whisper ofconsideration for others could penetrate her heart, and moderate itsvainglorious exultation.

Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on allsides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, shespread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying withmock respect, she said: "I would not be you for a kingdom."

The remark was too _naive to rouse anger; I merely said: "Verygood."

"And what would _you give to be ME?" she inquired.

"Not a bad sixpence--strange as it may sound," I replied. "You are buta poor creature."

"You don't think so in your heart."

"No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I onlyoccasionally turn you over in my brain."

"Well, but," said she, in an expostulatory tone, "just listen to thedifference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and howmiserable are you."

"Go on; I listen."

"In the first place: I am the daughter of a gentleman of family, andthough my father is not rich, I have expectations from an uncle.Then, I am just eighteen, the finest age possible. I have had acontinental education, and though I can't spell, I have abundantaccomplishments. I _am pretty; _you can't deny that; I may haveas many admirers as I choose. This very night I have been breaking thehearts of two gentlemen, and it is the dying look I had from one of themjust now, which puts me in such spirits. I do so like to watch them turnred and pale, and scowl and dart fiery glances at each other, andlanguishing ones at me. There is _me_--happy ME; now for _you_,poor soul!

"I suppose you are nobody's daughter, since you took care of littlechildren when you first came to Villette: you have no relations; youcan't call yourself young at twenty-three; you have no attractiveaccomplishments--no beauty. As to admirers, you hardly know what theyare; you can't even talk on the subject: you sit dumb when the otherteachers quote their conquests. I believe you never were in love, andnever will be: you don't know the feeling, and so much the better, forthough you might have your own heart broken, no living heart will youever break. Isn't it all true?"

"A good deal of it is true as gospel, and shrewd besides. There mustbe good in you, Ginevra, to speak so honestly; that snake, Zelie St.Pierre, could not utter what you have uttered. Still, Miss Fanshawe,hapless as I am, according to your showing, sixpence I would not giveto purchase you, body and soul."

"Just because I am not clever, and that is all _you think of.Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness."

"On the contrary, I consider you _are clever, in your way--verysmart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts--that edifyingamusement into the merits of which I don't quite enter; pray on whomdoes your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?"

She approached her lips to my ear--"Isidore and Alfred de Hamal areboth here?" she whispered.

"Oh! they are? I should like to see them."

"There's a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me,I will point them out."

She proudly led the way--"But you cannot see them well from theclasses," said she, turning, "Madame keeps them too far off. Let uscross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind:we shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind."

For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went--penetrated intothe corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the_carre_, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near viewof the band of "jeunes gens."

I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal evenundirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured littledandy. I say _little dandy, though he was not beneath the middlestandard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were hishands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll:so nicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved andcravated--he was charming indeed. I said so. "What, a dear personage!"cried I, and commended Ginevra's taste warmly; and asked her what shethought de Hamal might have done with the precious fragments of thatheart she had broken--whether he kept them in a scent-vial, andconserved them in otto of roses? I observed, too, with deep rapture ofapprobation, that the colonel's hands were scarce larger than MissFanshawe's own, and suggested that this circumstance might beconvenient, as he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls,I told her I doated: and as to his low, Grecian brow, and exquisiteclassic headpiece, I confessed I had no language to do suchperfections justice.

"And if he were your lover?" suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra.

"Oh! heavens, what bliss!" said I; "but do not be inhuman, MissFanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing pooroutcast Cain a far, glimpse of Paradise."

"You like him, then?"

"As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers."

Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; shecould then readily credit that they were mine too.

"Now for Isidore," I went on. I own I felt still more curious to seehim than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.

"Alfred was admitted here to-night," said she, "through the influenceof his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him,can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all theevening, and acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I amnow happy as a queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance firstat him and then at the other, and madden them both."

"The murder is out," I subjoined. "Never mind, show him all the same;I engage not to faint."

She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.

"You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor."

"There is no draught, Dr. John," said I, turning.

"She takes cold so easily," he pursued, looking at Ginevra withextreme kindness. "She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her ashawl."

"Permit me to judge for myself," said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. "Iwant no shawl."

"Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated."

"Always preaching," retorted she; "always coddling and admonishing."

The answer Dr. John would have given did not come; that his heart washurt became evident in his eye; darkened, and saddened, and pained, heturned a little aside, but was patient. I knew where there were plentyof shawls near at hand; I ran and fetched one.

"She shall wear this, if I have strength to make her," said I, foldingit well round her muslin dress, covering carefully her neck and herarms. "Is that Isidore?" I asked, in a somewhat fierce whisper.

She pushed up her lip, smiled, and nodded.

"Is _that Isidore?" I repeated, giving her a shake: I could havegiven her a dozen.

"The Colonel-Count!" I echoed. "The doll--the puppet--the manikin--thepoor inferior creature! A mere lackey for Dr. John his valet, hisfoot-boy! Is it possible that fine generous gentleman--handsome as avision--offers you his honourable hand and gallant heart, and promisesto protect your flimsy person and feckless mind through the storms andstruggles of life--and you hang back--you scorn, you sting, youtorture him! Have you power to do this? Who gave you that power? Whereis it? Does it lie all in your beauty--your pink and white complexion,and your yellow hair? Does this bind his soul at your feet, and bendhis neck under your yoke? Does this purchase for you his affection,his tenderness, his thoughts, his hopes, his interest, his noble,cordial love--and will you not have it? Do you scorn it? You are onlydissembling: you are not in earnest: you love him; you long for him;but you trifle with his heart to make him more surely yours?"

"Bah! How you run on! I don't understand half you have said."

I had got her out into the garden ere this. I now set her down on aseat and told her she should not stir till she had avowed which shemeant in the end to accept--the man or the monkey.

"Him you call the man," said she, "is bourgeois, sandy-haired, andanswers to the name of John!--cela suffit: je n'en veux pas. Colonelde Hamal is a gentleman of excellent connections, perfect manners,sweet appearance, with pale interesting face, and hair and eyes likean Italian. Then too he is the most delightful company possible--a manquite in my way; not sensible and serious like the other; but one withwhom I can talk on equal terms--who does not plague and bore, andharass me with depths, and heights, and passions, and talents forwhich I have no taste. There now. Don't hold me so fast."

I slackened my grasp, and she darted off. I did not care to pursueher.

Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of thecorridor to get another glimpse of Dr. John; but I met him on thegarden-steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. Hiswell-proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whetherthere was another in that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat inhis hand; his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were mosthandsome and manly. _His features were not delicate, not slightlike those of a woman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and feeble;though well cut, they were not so chiselled, so frittered away, as tolose in expression or significance what they gained in unmeaningsymmetry. Much feeling spoke in them at times, and more sat silent inhis eye. Such at least were my thoughts of him: to me he seemed allthis. An inexpressible sense of wonder occupied me, as I looked atthis man, and reflected that _he could not be slighted.

It was, not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, ourterms of acquaintance not warranting such a step; I had only meant toview him in the crowd--myself unseen: coming upon him thus alone, Iwithdrew. But he was looking out for me, or rather for her who hadbeen with me: therefore he descended the steps, and followed me downthe alley.

"You know Miss Fanshawe? I have often wished to ask whether you knewher," said he.

"Yes: I know her."

"Intimately?"

"Quite as intimately as I wish."

"What have you done with her now?"

"Am I her keeper?" I felt inclined to ask; but I simply answered, "Ihave shaken her well, and would have shaken her better, but sheescaped out of my hands and ran away."

"Would you favour me," he asked, "by watching over her this oneevening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent--does not, forinstance, run out into the night-air immediately after dancing?"

"I may, perhaps, look after her a little; since you wish it; but shelikes her own way too well to submit readily to control."

"She is so young, so thoroughly artless," said he.

"To me she is an enigma," I responded.

"Is she?" he asked--much interested. "How?"

"It would be difficult to say how--difficult, at least, to tell_you how."

"And why me?"

"I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend."

"But she has not the slightest idea how much I _am her friend.That is precisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire did sheever speak of me to you?"

"Under the name of 'Isidore' she has talked about you often; but Imust add that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discoveredthat you and 'Isidore' are identical. It is only, Dr. John, withinthat brief space of time I have learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is theperson, under this roof, in whom you have long been interested--thatshe is the magnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette, that for hersake you venture into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped byrivals."

"You know all?"

"I know so much."

"For more than a year I have been accustomed to meet her in society.Mrs. Cholmondeley, her friend, is an acquaintance of mine; thus I seeher every Sunday. But you observed that under the name of 'Isidore'she often spoke of me: may I--without inviting you to a breach ofconfidence--inquire what was the tone, what the feeling of herremarks? I feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tormentedwith uncertainty as to how I stand with her."

"Oh, she varies: she shifts and changes like the wind."

"Still, you can gather some general idea--?"

"I can," thought I, "but it would not do to communicate that generalidea to you. Besides, if I said she did not love you, I know you wouldnot believe me."

"You are silent," he pursued. "I suppose you have no good news toimpart. No matter. If she feels for me positive coldness and aversion,it is a sign I do not deserve her."

"Do you doubt yourself? Do you consider yourself the inferior ofColonel de Hamal?"

"I love Miss Fanshawe far more than de Hamal loves any human being,and would care for and guard her better than he. Respecting de Hamal,I fear she is under an illusion; the man's character is known to me,all his antecedents, all his scrapes. He is not worthy of yourbeautiful young friend."

"My 'beautiful young friend' ought to know that, and to know or feelwho is worthy of her," said I. "If her beauty or her brains will notserve her so far, she merits the sharp lesson of experience."

"Are you not a little severe?"

"I am excessively severe--more severe than I choose to show you. Youshould hear the strictures with which I favour my 'beautiful youngfriend,' only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want oftender considerateness for her delicate nature."

"She is so lovely, one cannot but be loving towards her. You--everywoman older than herself, must feel for such a simple, innocent,girlish fairy a sort of motherly or elder-sisterly fondness. Gracefulangel! Does not your heart yearn towards her when she pours into yourear her pure, childlike confidences? How you are privileged!" And hesighed.

"I cut short these confidences somewhat abruptly now and then," saidI. "But excuse me, Dr. John, may I change the theme for one instant?What a god-like person is that de Hamal! What a nose on his face--perfect! Model one in putty or clay, you could not make a better orstraighter, or neater; and then, such classic lips and chin--and hisbearing--sublime."

"De Hamal is an unutterable puppy, besides being a very white-liveredhero."

"You, Dr. John, and every man of a less-refined mould than he, mustfeel for him a sort of admiring affection, such as Mars and thecoarser deities may be supposed to have borne the young, gracefulApollo."

"An unprincipled, gambling little jackanapes!" said Dr. John curtly,"whom, with one hand, I could lift up by the waistband any day, andlay low in the kennel if I liked."

"The sweet seraph!" said I. "What a cruel idea! Are you not a littlesevere, Dr. John?"

And now I paused. For the second time that night I was going beyondmyself--venturing out of what I looked on as my natural habits--speaking in an unpremeditated, impulsive strain, which startled mestrangely when I halted to reflect. On rising that morning, had Ianticipated that before night I should have acted the part of a gaylover in a vaudeville; and an hour after, frankly discussed with Dr.John the question of his hapless suit, and rallied him on hisillusions? I had no more presaged such feats than I had looked forwardto an ascent in a balloon, or a voyage to Cape Horn.

The Doctor and I, having paced down the walk, were now returning; thereflex from the window again lit his face: he smiled, but his eye wasmelancholy. How I wished that he could feel heart's-ease! How Igrieved that he brooded over pain, and pain from such a cause! He,with his great advantages, _he to love in vain! I did not thenknow that the pensiveness of reverse is the best phase for some minds;nor did I reflect that some herbs, "though scentless when entire,yield fragrance when they're bruised."

"Do not be sorrowful, do not grieve," I broke out. "If there is inGinevra one spark of worthiness of your affection, she will--she_must feel devotion in return. Be cheerful, be hopeful, Dr.John. Who should hope, if not you?"

In return for this speech I got--what, it must be supposed, Ideserved--a look of surprise: I thought also of some disapprobation.We parted, and I went into the house very chill. The clocks struck andthe bells tolled midnight; people were leaving fast: the fete wasover; the lamps were fading. In another hour all the dwelling-house,and all the pensionnat, were dark and hushed. I too was in bed, butnot asleep. To me it was not easy to sleep after a day of suchexcitement.

CHAPTER XV - THE LONG VACATIONFollowing Madame Beck's fete, with its three preceding weeks ofrelaxation, its brief twelve hours' burst of hilarity and dissipation,and its one subsequent day of utter languor, came a period ofreaction; two months of real application, of close, hard study. Thesetwo months, being the last of the "annee scolaire," were indeed theonly genuine working months in the year. To them was procrastinated--into them concentrated, alike by professors, mistresses, and pupils--the main burden of preparation for the examinations preceding thedistribution of prizes. Candidates for rewards had then to work ingood earnest; masters and teachers had to set their

CHAPTER XIII - A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASONI had occasion to smile--nay, to laugh, at Madame again, within thespace of four and twenty hours after the little scene treated of inthe last chapter.Villette owns a climate as variable, though not so humid, as that ofany English town. A night of high wind followed upon that soft sunset,and all the next day was one of dry storm--dark, beclouded, yetrainless,--the streets were dim with sand and dust, whirled from theboulevards. I know not that even lovely weather would have tempted meto spend the evening-time of study and recreation where I had spent ityesterday.